Giving In
by DreamersLie
Summary: Since the day they first met, Peter and Claire have been fighting the growing attraction they feel for one another. What happens when they finally give in?
1. Prologue

**Title**: Giving In. [Prologue]**  
Fandom**: _Heroes_. Spoilers up through the end of Season 4, branching off AU from "Let it Bleed."**  
Characters/Pairings**: Claire Bennet, Peter Petrelli, Paire, canon/au.**  
Warnings**: Incest, mature content.**  
Disclaimer**: _Heroes _and the characters belong to Tim Kring and NBC. I just do naughty things with them**.  
Rating**: Up through M for later chapters.**  
Summary**: Since the day they met, Peter and Claire have been fighting the feelings they seem to be developing for each other.

**Notes**: This is the prologue in what I hope will be a longer saga. Future fics will likely be written in past tense and the rating will eventually go up to M. It starts off mainly canon, with me just tweaking a few things to my liking and will eventually turn extremely AU.

* * *

The cheerleader who bumps into Peter in the hallway of the Odessa high school is unfortunately adorable. He is momentarily distracted from his mission long enough to wonder why schools make underage girls wear outfits like that. The uniform seems to serve no purpose other than to remind men Peter's age how long it has been since they last got laid. But it is not just her outfit that draws him in, or even her bouncy blonde hair and radiant smile; it is the sadness that seeps from her eyes, and it is the fact that she is wandering the halls alone right before a big game. Peter is instantly positive that this is _his _cheerleader despite the fact that she is not the one in the picture with the train wreck. He has never met anyone who looked like they needed to be saved as much as this girl, though she is trying like hell not to let anyone see.

The guy she crashes into is staring steadily at the picture of Jackie in the trophy case, and Claire feels an irrational spike of jealousy. He has to have five years on her, maybe more--it's hard to tell with his boyish features, with the way his hair is falling into his eyes just like a teenager. He is not her type in the least and yet she can't help but linger in the hallway, her mouth spitting out the words before she realizes she has no place saying them.

"You know, between you and me, she's not that special. Just your average teenage girl."

Peter recognizes the tone in her voice because he has had himself more than once. "She rushed into a fire and saved a man's life, sounds kinda special to me."

"Yeah, you're right. I'm jealous. She's our town hero. Me? I don't win too many popularity contests."

"Hey!" She looks like she's about to leave, but Peter can't just let her walk away without saying something else. "It gets better, you know. Life after high school." He wants to tell her that he understands what she's going through because he's been there himself. High school was lonely and miserable for Peter and he can certainly commiserate, but...he gets the feeling she's not just referring to classes. It doesn't make sense, because Jackie Wilcox is clearly his girl, but he can't stop comparing this cheerleader's face to the one in Isaac's painting.

* * *

He is still there when she suddenly returns, covered in blood and looking petrified. _It __**is **__her_, Peter thinks, and then he sees Sylar and he is telling her to run again, making sure she has a head start before he follows. The rest of the night is a blur of broken bones and self-healing wounds, of confusion and awestruck gazes and handcuffs and telekinesis. Peter does not think twice about yanking Sylar off the auditorium roof with him, because he knows that he is _supposed _to end up mangled on the ground underneath the Homecoming sign, and all that matters is saving the cheerleader.

There is time only to exchange names before she has to go; the police are coming and Noah is waiting and it doesn't matter that Jackie's head was sliced open with someone's _finger_, Claire has to pretend to be normal.

"Are you the one," Peter asks, popping his bones back into place with a sickening crunch, not understanding how his body is regenerating but knowing without a doubt that it is somehow related to her. "By saving you, did I save the world?"

"I don't know. I'm just a cheerleader." Claire knows she sounds dumb, but she is too amazed by the sight of the stranger's skin sealing itself over to speak intelligently. The only thing more amazing than the fact that he shares her ability is the way he had thrown himself off of a _roof _to protect her. Healing powers or not, it was still kind of bad ass.

* * *

She knows she should be mourning her dead friend, but all Claire can think about is Peter. She is tired of recanting her story to the police, furious that they think he has something to do with the crime, and irritated with her father for not allowing her to see him.

He knows he should be worried about getting out of the police station, but all Peter can think about is Claire. He is tired of asking a hundred questions and getting no answers, furious that no one will tell him what's going on, and irritated that his family only shows up in his dreams.

Matt Parkman brings a new ability to Peter. The thoughts echoing in his head are not his own, and through a few fractured sentences he learns that a cheerleader his dead. _It can't be true_, he thinks, and it is almost shameful how happy he is when he learns the death was not Claire's. He creates more questions and still gets no answers, and soon he is back in his cell but then Claire, _his _cheerleader, is coming in to visit even though her father stands watchful outside of the door.

The thoughts he can hear in her head are enough to turn his neck red. Thankfully, Peter is covered in enough blood to cloak his blush. It feels like a horrible invasion of privacy but he's happy to know that she is so pleased to see him, even if she's mad that they won't let him go yet. Even if she's sixteen god damned years old.

The first thing Claire thinks upon seeing Peter is that he really needs to take off his clothes. She doesn't mean it in a sexual way, just that he's still wearing the same thing she had seen him in the night before, and that his shirt is stained with dirt and blood. But it only takes one stray, innocent thought to send her mind reeling in _that _direction, and then it takes all of the composure she barely has to remember why she came to see him.

The hero worship settles in the second Peter tells Claire that he hadn't known he was going to heal. The realization that he had tried to save her despite the fact that it should have gotten him killed is enough to send her reeling. Her mind is buzzing with so many thoughts that all he can hear is a steady hum of shock and mild giddiness. Of all the things that he is, selfish is not one of them, so Peter tries to act modest because he _knows _that he needs to quell the crush she seems to rapidly be developing on him.

"Can I see you again?" She asks, eyes darting to the door as her father beckons with increasing impatience.

"I live in New York," Peter responds, thinking that this will be an easy way to stop whatever seems to be happening. But the smile on Claire's face appears to shatter at his words, and Peter finds himself saying, "But you can call me," even though he definitely shouldn't be encouraging her.

* * *

Neither one of them expect the calls to start happening so frequently, nor do they expect the texts to come second nature when they are bored or scared or worried about something. In a world peppered with evolved humans, they are the only two who speak to each other candidly, giving each other the honesty that they both crave. Peter is the only one who treats Claire like an adult, and Claire is the only one who embraces her ability the way Peter does. They never lie to each other.

But not lying is not the same thing as telling the truth, and there is always one thing they both omit. They leave it out because there are two thousand miles and ten years between the two of them. It makes Claire feel foolish and Peter feel sick. It doesn't matter, though, because what they both really need is a friend. They do not honestly expect anything more.

But what Claire _really _doesn't expect is to show up at Peter's apartment on a whim only to be told by Angela that they are related. And Peter does not expect to wake up from being _dead_ to find that he is only alive because Claire knew how to fix him, and by the way, she is his niece.

* * *

It is awkward and uncomfortable and embarrassing for them both. The only salvation is that nothing ever actually happened, that they didn't even get to a point where they were admitting anything out loud. It is so much worse for Peter because he's already stricken with guilt that she's so young and that is his _brother's daughter_. It is so much worse for Claire because despite everything, she can't get her feelings to _go away_.

There are plenty of things to distract them. The world is always ending and people are always dying and there are comas and memory loss and captivity and daddy issues and carnivals to keep them busy. They grow simultaneously closer together and farther apart as Peter does things he is not proud of and Claire searches for answers she is not sure she actually wants to find. Their lives are wrenched apart and forced together by various circumstances, but they always have their phone calls.

Claire finds it jarring how easily Peter slips into the role of uncle. It is a sensory overload because he no longer has to tip-toe around her physically. He is a Petrelli, and they show their familial affection with an overabundance of touching. There are hugs that last too long and kisses that press into her forehead and lips that brush against her cheeks. It means nothing because they come from Angela and Nathan just the same; it was more telling when Peter kept a carefully measured distance.

Peter can't treat her any differently than he treats anyone else in his family, because he sees the way Angela looks at him sometimes and wonders what kind of prophetic dreams she might have had before his shared DNA with Claire was made public knowledge. His affection is frequent but platonic and no one looks at him twice anymore, no one but Claire.

The first time Peter tells her that he loves her, Claire's face goes red and her temperature rises and her heart catches in her throat. Peter says it because that is what people in the Petrelli family say to each other (even when they don't mean it) and he kind of likes the way it makes Claire react, so he keeps doing it. (Sometimes they do mean it.)


	2. The Funeral

**Title**: Giving In. [Chapter 1]**  
Fandom**: _Heroes_. Spoilers up through the end of Season 4, branching off AU from "Let it Bleed."**  
Characters/Pairings**: Claire Bennet, Peter Petrelli, Paire, canon/au.**  
Warnings**: Incest, mature content.**  
Disclaimer**: _Heroes _and the characters belong to Tim Kring and NBC. I just do naughty things with them**.  
Rating**: Up through M for later chapters.**  
Summary**: Since the day they met, Peter and Claire have been fighting the feelings they seem to be developing for each other. After Nathan's funeral, there is only one person who could possibly attempt to comfort Peter.

It was exhausting work, worrying about Peter. In some sick way Claire was almost glad for it. If her focus was concentrated on him, she was less likely to fall into her own pit of despair. Of course she was in no way glad that Peter was hurting so deeply, especially because his pain was so varied. Claire was dealing more with the betrayal her father had put her through than Nathan's actual death. Sure, he was her biological father and she had, maybe in some way, loved him. But Claire was not _truly _a Petrelli; she was not accepted or welcomed as one, her blood being the only indication that she'd come from Nathan.

That in itself was half the problem. She'd been raised a Bennet, felt like a Bennet, acted like a Bennet. Nathan had never been her father, Angela had never been her grandmother, and Peter...he had never been her uncle.

It was a cruel twist of fate that the pair had turned out to be related. It was hard to stomach for Claire, who'd been hit hard with hero worship since the first night she had met Peter, a crush that only grew exponentially when he'd talked to her so sweetly for the weeks following her homecoming. How could she _not_ fall for a guy who'd thrown himself off a building for her, especially when he hadn't realized he was going to heal?

And she'd thought...maybe he'd felt it, too. Peter was certainly not Claire's type and she imagined that she wasn't his. He had ten years on her; Claire was just a kid, still in high school. Any other time it might have been weird or gross, but when you factored in superpowers it just _wasn't_ anymore. Peter's baby face just smoothed things along-there was something sad and mysterious inside his hazel eyes, something kind and strong in the handsome lines of his face.

Peter was sweet. He cared about her and frankly, he cared about _everyone_ with such an honest wholeness that it was almost intoxicating to be around him. He talked to everyone as if he'd known them for years, treated her like a person instead of a fragile little girl. When they'd exchanged numbers after she'd met him in the sheriff's holding station and he'd started calling to check on her, it felt like Claire literally had no choice in the matter as far as her feelings were concerned.

Then she'd arrived at his apartment to find Angela at the door, explaining pointedly that he was her _uncle_...and she'd been fighting the severely non-platonic feelings ever since. Being close to Peter was more important than being with him, and who was she kidding? She was a child compared to him; he probably never reciprocated her feelings.

But sometimes she wasn't so sure. Sometimes it was a gaze that lasted too long or a touch that felt too intimate (though it was hard to tell with that one; the entire Petrelli family touched a _lot_) or sometimes it was just the way he said, "I love you, Claire." It had come easily after they'd discovered their relation, but that was also common in the Petrelli family. It didn't fault to make her breath catch in her throat every time he said it, her heart pounding with every hug.

It was _sick_, and at the same time, not her fault. She couldn't stop her feelings despite desperately wanting to, so instead she just controlled them. It helped that there always seemed to be some catastrophe about to occur, making it easier to focus on something else. Like Nathan's death, and the twisted thing that their parents had done with Sylar.

* * *

The phone call came from Emma's number, which was the only reason Claire had answered the phone, but it was Angela's voice that rang through loudly.

"I know you're already coming to the funeral tonight, but I need you to help me with Peter. He hasn't gotten any better since the wake-he's not sleeping and I don't think he's eating either. The doctor has prescribed him some sedatives but he refuses to take them. I thought maybe you could convince him to act more like a human."

"I'll see what I can do," Claire said softly, her heart breaking at the thought of Peter refusing treatment. It was just like him to refuse to numb the pain; it was just like her as well. She would have done literally anything to feel pain again.

* * *

The funeral was long and terrible. Peter tried his hardest to be numb. He didn't want to feel the anguish of Nathan's death, the burning sting of his mother's betrayal. He did not want to feel the crushing emptiness that felt as though it had hollowed him out. He had lost a piece of himself when Nathan had died, and a bigger piece the night he'd nailed Sylar to a table to try and get him back.

He threw himself back into work, trying like hell to even the scales of karma that his mother had royally fucked up. Twelve-hour shifts at the hospital, heroic misadventures that prompted Claire to destroy his police scanner, lack of eating and sleeping and an overabundance of insomnia and nightmares. Peter refused his medication; he didn't _deserve_ to get a good night's sleep.

It was impossible to take-condolences from people he didn't know and sad eyes from those he did. People bitching about finger food and reminiscing about Nathan and the hawklike, watchful gaze of his mother just waiting for him to snap. It wasn't long before he literally couldn't handle it anymore, and so he simply left. He just didn't realized Claire would follow.

* * *

The hallways were empty and quiet as Claire made her way to Peter's apartment. The door wasn't locked so she slipped inside, wondering if he planned on heading out again or was just being lax in his own security. She tightened the locks behind her before venturing into the living room.

He still didn't have any furniture.

Claire's eyes caught sight of an orange prescription bottle resting on the kitchen counter. She touched it, her finger darting over the label. _Halcion_.

Her shoes made a too-loud sound against the hard wood as she made her way to his bedroom. The door was half shut and she pushed it open, unsurprised to see Peter slouched on what was left of his bed-a twin mattress and box spring covered in a queen-sized blue sheet, sitting just a couple feet off the ground. He was still wearing all of his clothes, his face planted in his hands, elbows propped up on his knees.

"Peter," she said softly.

* * *

Was it bad that though he heard strange sounds in his apartment, he just didn't _care_? When the door to his bedroom creaked he glanced up, and Claire's face filled him with a strange sense of melancholy. Should he see Nathan when he looked at her? He didn't, not even the slightest. She was all curves and round edges, from her button nose to her oval-shaped face. She had none of Nathan's sharp features, no dark hair or brooding eyes. She was honey-colored curls and sea-green eyes and when her heart-shaped mouth said his name, he almost couldn't handle it.

"Claire," he said back, his voice thick with the emotion he couldn't show at the public funeral. He lifted his head up and suddenly he couldn't take anymore. She was sweet and she was caring; clearly she had driven all the way to his apartment to check on him. Peter didn't deserve her comfort, he deserved nothing. He was just as bad as Angela and Noah, just as bad as they were for lying and cheating and taking what didn't belong to them.

"Claire," he said again, his voice cracking slightly. Then he couldn't stop it, the tears pricked the corners of his eyes until they were falling, his body starting to shake with uncontrollable sobs.

* * *

Claire could not remember the last time she had seen Peter lose it the way he was losing it now. After a stunned moment she realized it was because she never had; Peter was strong and brave and good at tucking his feelings aside to get through the day. She practically tripped over herself in a rush to get near him, collapsing on the shoddy bed beside him. She threw her arms around Peter, clinging to him in a desperate attempt to make the both of them feel better. Her heart felt as if it was literally breaking to see Peter so upset. He barely moved, not responding to her comfort at all, and the absence of his reaction to her touch was almost as terrifying as watching him cry. Claire shifted herself up and onto Peter's bed and pulled him closer to her. "It's okay, Peter, it's okay," she whispered frantically, knowing it was anything but. After an excruciatingly long moment, Peter leaned into her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, his torso turning toward her even as his arm slipped awkwardly around her waist. Claire stopped breathing for the moment, her fingers running soothingly through Peter's hair, her own tears falling to make dark wet spots on the back of his suit.

They remained that way for a while, Peter sobbing quietly into Claire's shoulder while she tried her damnedest to comfort him. She had never experienced a loss like this before, never witnessed someone so wholly destroyed by a death. Even when her family had thought Noah was dead, it was somehow not as bad-maybe because there had always been a part of Claire that didn't fully believe it. Peter had staged his own brother's death, crashing the plane so Nathan's body could look properly mangled even as his healed. There was no going back from that, no hopeful thoughts or 'what ifs'.

Just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Peter sat up abruptly, rubbing his hands wearily over his face, his eyes apologizing for the wet streaks he'd left on Claire's dress. She pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly, wanting him to know that he never needed to say he was sorry.

"I have to tell you something, Claire. It's not fair to keep it from you any longer."

Claire's heart caught in her throat; Peter sounded so morose and forlorn and she just wasn't sure she could handle whatever it was he was going to say. It was too much already, from everything that had happened to the funeral to Peter losing his god damned mind in her arms. Her body felt cold from where his had disentangled from hers, the new air flowing between them chilling the wetness on her neck. She made no move to wipe herself dry, because it might very well erase any proof that Peter had, at least for the moment, needed her. "What are you talking about?" Claire asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"I...I tried to keep him, Claire." Peter looked dangerously close to breaking down again, so Claire scooted closer and covered his hand with her own, her fingers gripping maybe a little more tightly than necessary. She didn't understand exactly what he meant but she could tell the guilt of his statement was overwhelming.

"After I found out what Mom had done, I went to find Sylar." Claire didn't know if she thought it was sweet or stupid that Peter didn't seem to consider Noah or Matt as much to blame as Angela. On some level it was as if he was trying to protect her from the pain of parental betrayal, but on another it was frustrating. _I understand_, she wanted to tell him, _because it happened to me, too_.

She was silent as he spoke, her fingers grasping against his thigh when he pulled his hands away from her.

"The things I did," Peter murmured. His voice was low and haunted, eyes glazed over in a distant memory. He looked empty again, and Claire began to inch closer still on the bed, her blood pounding heavily in her ears as she waited for him to string together a coherent thought.

"I'm just as bad as my mother," he said sullenly, and a cry caught in Claire's throat. _No, no, no no no no_. There was nothing Peter could do that would make him as bad as Angela.

"Peter-" The name finally escaped her mouth and he held up one of his hands to silence her.

"I found Sylar, and I tried to convince him to turn back into Nathan. I threatened him, and I beat him, and I _hurt _him until he shifted back into Nathan's body."

Claire's eyes widened slightly at the imagery of sweet, gentle Peter _hurting _anyone, even Sylar, just to get his way. She put her hand back on his knee. "It's okay, Peter." She said softly, meaning it more than she had the time before. She had the power to forgive him for this, to rationalize or justify his actions. "You just wanted your brother back."

"Don't you get it?" Peter snapped, jerking away from her touch. "I'm selfish, Claire. I wasn't ready to give him up, just like mom. I was disgusted with her plan and then I tried to carry it out myself. You know it was Nathan-_Nathan_, who wasn't even _real_, who told me I had to let him go. 'Fight the good fight, Pete' and 'Take care of Claire' and then he was ready to go, to die, and I had no choice but to let him. I could've..." His voice trailed off, because even Peter didn't know what he could have done instead.

"No, Peter! Don't _you _get it? Everyone is allowed a moment of weakness. You're human just like the rest of us and the part that matters is that you _did _let him go! You didn't keep the charade up for months, lying to everyone you loved! It's not a crime to want to hang on to whatever piece of Nathan that you could. Maybe you had a moment where you behaved rashly but you got over it, and hell, you're even confessing to me now. You are _nothing _like your mother, Peter. She wouldn't have said a damn word if you hadn't discovered the body yourself. Who knows how long it would have lasted? You're the only Petrelli without a big black smear across their name and I don't want you to forget that."

Peter was silent for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gulps of air. Claire had told him exactly what he needed to hear, and though he did not quite believe it just yet, the possibility for forgiving himself was starting to blossom.

"That's not true," he addressed her last point softly, finally laying his hand back down so Claire's comforting fingers could grasp it. "You're a Petrelli, too."

Why did he have to ruin everything? Claire's tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of her mouth, her eyes blinking back stupid, foolish tears. She looked everywhere but at Peter's face, finally settling on the sight of their hands clasped together on his knee. She should have known it was coming, the blunt reminder that the two were related, because Peter always found a way to work their DNA into a conversation if it felt like they were getting too close. She was just never sure if he was doing it for her benefit or his own.

"Not really," she mumbled, tearing herself away from him and scrambling awkwardly to her feet. "Peter, you...you need to sleep. Everyone is worried about you." Without a further word, Claire disappeared out of his bedroom door and made her way back to the kitchen. Rifling through his cabinets in search of a clean glass, Claire took the moment to regain her composure. Peter wasn't trying to _ruin _anything because there wasn't anything to ruin. Her sick, juvenile crush (because she refused to allow herself to believe it was more than that) had absolutely no place in the house of a man mourning his dead brother, and she was a terrible person for letting her mind flit there even briefly. Peter was her uncle, her sad, broken, hurting uncle.

She moved through the kitchen quietly, finally coming across a coffee mug in one of the drawers. Even it was coated in a thin layer of dust, indicating exactly how much use Peter had recently been getting out of his dishes, so she rinsed it clean in the sink before turning toward the fridge. It was empty, the soft light inside bouncing off the pristine white walls and casting a low glow over the rest of the room. Claire sighed and filled the mug with tap water, grabbing the orange bottle of pills before heading back into Peter's bedroom.

He was standing with his back to the door, his shoes lined up neatly under his desk and his tie loosened. Turning when he heard Claire re-enter, Peter's eyes fell on the pills and he shook his head, "I don't-"

But she cut him off with a glare. He didn't what? Want? Need? "You don't get a choice," she said stiffly, setting down the prescription bottle and crossing her arms. "You can't just avoid sleeping forever, Peter."

"It's not the sleeping," he said finally, burying his hands in the pockets of his tux to stop his fingers from tapping manically against the desk. "It's the falling asleep, and then the waking up. Trying to sleep you think too much, and then...when you wake up, for a minute you've forgotten everything and then it just comes crashing back down." Peter gave the bottle of a pills a hard look. "It would be easier if I didn't have to wake up again."

For a second, Claire was frozen. "What? No!" Her voice took on a hysterical edge, causing Peter's head to snap up, his features softening. "You can't talk like that, I can't, you-" Her words were not coming out in complete sentences but it wasn't her fault; even with her regenerate ability Claire was positive she would not be able to live without Peter. She balled her fists at her sides, overcome with the irrational urge to just _hit _him. How dare he think about leaving her behind, how _dare _he-

"Hey." Peter cut her off, his voice quiet, moving to hold her carefully by the shoulders. "That's not what I meant. Besides, you know my thing is jumping off buildings." He teased, the corner of his mouth lifting in the smallest of smiles. Claire did not dare to breathe, her arms plastered at her sides as she tried to believe what Peter was saying. The smile he almost gave was worth a tiny burst of hope, but his eyes remained empty. She felt crazy, like every single nerve in her body was on edge. His jokes were not appreciated, not on this topic.

"You'll feel better," she managed finally, "if you get a good night's sleep. Even if it hurts."

"I don't want to be alone." Peter spoke so quietly that Claire was not entirely sure she had heard him. Her mouth fumbled to form the proper response.

"You won't. I'll stay. I. I'm staying." She rephrased quickly, realizing that her first comment sounded like a suggestion, like she was asking for permission. There was no way in hell Claire was leaving Peter alone that night, not after the way his eyes had lingered on his prescription bottle.

He nodded, the tiniest spark of relief coming over his face. "I'll set up the couch," he said, already moving to the door. Claire grabbed his arm.

"No, you stay here. I'll stay on the couch tonight. You should sleep in your own bed." Peter didn't move.

* * *

[ _Peter always sleeps on the couch when Claire stays over. He drags a pillow and a blanket into the living room and lays there in unmoving, perfect silence until her breathing changes from the next room and he can tell she is asleep. Only then does he allow himself to close his eyes. He sleeps fully clothed and facing the back of the couch, so that she is not the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning. Claire sleeps in Peter's bed, and at first she lies stiff as a board on top of his blankets, pulling the sheet over his pillows so it doesn't smell as strongly like him as it could. There is one time when she gives in, surrounding her entire body with the blankets and pillows that Peter uses every night, inhaling deeply_ _against the soft cotton. When she wakes up, she is drenched in sweat, her body burning up from the dreams her mind had produced. From that time on, she waits until Peter is settled into the living room and then falls asleep on his floor, curled at the foot of his bed because she no longer trusts herself in it. _]

* * *

"Come on," Claire said, taking the bottle of Halcion from the desk and reading the label carefully. Two would be enough to put him to sleep, so she shook a couple of the tiny pills into her palm and extended it, her eyes drifting pointedly to the mug of water she'd left. Peter took the medication and threw it back with a swish of water, but he still wasn't moving. Claire waited a moment to see what her uncle was going to do, but he seemed intent on simply standing in the middle of his room with that hollow look on his face.

Claire took a step around the side of Peter, depositing the pills back onto his desk and then, on a whim, reached for his jacket. Peter stiffened briefly when her hands landed on his shoulders, but she was pulling gently at his suit jacket and he was relenting, allowing his niece to slide the heavy material off his arms so she could drape it over the back of his desk chair. He was still frozen and Claire didn't know how to fix it, so she simply moved her hands to his neck and worked her small fingers against his tie until it came off, and then she added it to the chair and gave Peter a gentle push towards his bed. Stretching behind herself, Claire flicked the light switch off.

The movement seemed to startle him out of his reverie and suddenly Peter was crying again, noiseless, slow tears that broke Claire's heart cleanly in half. She kicked off her heels and pushed back the covers on Peter's bed, sinking down into the middle of the mattress even as she pulled him down with her. Peter did not resist this time and Claire felt a sick sense of relief. This was real pain, and it was true and deep and sad but it was better than looking into the dead eyes of someone who had gone empty. She propped herself into a sitting position and Peter leaned into her, his head resting on an awkward combination of his pillow and her shoulder, his arm wrapping around her back tightly. It didn't matter that they were breaking their own unspoken rules of being too close, in the forbidden place of Peter's _bedroom_. Right now the only thing that was happening was open grieving, and so neither party seemed to notice when they both began to test their boundaries. Maybe it started with the kisses that Claire began to pepper across the side of Peter's face and his forehead, or the gentle stroke of her hands in his hair. Maybe it was the way Peter pressed his body against hers, curling into her legs and her hips as if he belonged there.

After a few moments his tears stopped and his breathing leveled. Claire had only planned to stay long enough to get Peter to fall asleep, but now that he was finally drifting off she found herself not wanting to move. He looked so peaceful, all of the tension and worry and hurt finally drained from his face. She decided to wait just a little bit longer to make sure his medication was officially kicked in, and _then _she'd retreat to the couch to let her uncle sleep.

* * *

The sunlight pouring in through the window was bright enough to rouse Peter from the first full night's sleep he'd had in a while. His first thought upon waking was that he definitely needed to make blinds the next item on his apartment refurnishing list. He lay still for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut to filter out as much obnoxious light as possible; this was the moment when his world usually came crashing back down. As consciousness slowly took over, Peter would remember that his brother was dead and the idea of getting out of bed would seem almost pointless.

Today, Peter had no time to think. He was instantly aware of something soft and hot pressed between his thighs and his eyes popped open to fall directly on a woman's bare shoulder. His entire brain felt foggy and his thoughts seemed too thick, and for a moment he was convinced he'd gotten drunk and had taken someone home with him after the funeral and that this was going to be the most awkward morning after of his life. But then the woman shifted on him, her head lolling back into his pillows even as her fingers scraped across his chest sleepily, and he realized it was _Claire_.

Memories of the night before came back to him slowly, from the way she'd followed him home to the way she had insisted he take his medication so he could finally sleep. He had to give it to her, he felt better than he had in weeks, so she'd clearly had the right idea...however, this was _not _the kind of position they should be waking up in. At some point during the night Claire had wrapped her entire body around him, or maybe he'd done it to her. Either way, they were far too close for comfort, Claire's leg wedged in between Peter's thighs and her arms tucked loosely around him. The strap of her dress had fallen off in the middle of the night, her skin ghost-pale against the black material.

"Hey," he tried, giving his niece a small shake. "We need to get up." Claire murmured something unintelligible and buried her face into his pillow, so Peter tried again. "Claire?"

"Don't wanna," her voice came out muffled and sleepy, and then, suddenly, Peter could feel her entire body tense up against him. Claire's eyes opened warily and she looked at Peter with a face full of embarrassment. "I didn't mean to.." Her voice trailed off as she looked down at their entangled bodies, jerking away as quickly as if she'd been burned. It could have been funny if it wasn't so awkward. Claire didn't even seem to have realized how they were laying until she'd opened her eyes, which seemed weird to Peter. Hadn't she _felt _it? He sure as hell had.

Free from her grasp, Peter sat up and brushed back his hair. "You were right," he said slowly. "It helped to sleep."


End file.
